Disarm
by icecreamcastles
Summary: directly after 1x08 "The Long Fuse" - One way or the other, I'm gonna be out of your life in a few weeks. (one-shot)


**[ First venture into the Elementary fandom, hopefully this doesn't suck.]**

* * *

_"One way or the other, I'm gonna be out of your life in a few weeks. Maybe you're dreading that day; maybe you're counting the seconds. Either way, I'm going to make sure you're ready when it comes… I promise."_

* * *

Six weeks. The closer it gets she's come to count the days, hours, seconds, milliseconds and it doesn't make sense. The look he gave her as the words slipped her mouth sort of rendered her speechless.

His six weeks are up. _Their_ six weeks.

She will be taking her belongings from Sherlock's home and yet she's never felt like she belonged anywhere else since she left her life as a surgeon behind.

She's never felt any need to not confront him and yet the simple want to stay isn't enough to tell him she wants to stay.

He's setting down a coffee beside his computer before going through various sketchy murder headlines when she finally finds it in herself to make herself apparent.

"Don't sneak up, Watson. I can feel you hovering."

The tone makes the tip of her lips curl up in amusement. "I'm just coming to give you your key back."

Sherlock's hand is the only thing that extends to her. Not a glance, not a full acknowledgment.

She places the key in his palm. It closes and delves into his vest pocket before skittering back onto the computer keyboard.

"Has Captain Gregson called?" It's a lame conversation starter she has to admit, but she knows it will peak his interest.

"No, actually. I'm looking into a case closed 14 years ago back in England nothing to worry yourself about." He finally turned to her, "You need help getting your things out?"

Joan was stunned at the nonchalant offer, the face accompanying it nothing like the other night's morose expression a few weeks ago, "No. I'll be fine."

Sherlock nodded, "On your way then."

Joan turned around and started retreating into the facts. Sherlock Holmes was her job. That's all it was. Nothing personal and definitely nothing that should make her feel like she needs to stay longer because she doesn't. He's clean, she's a sober companion, job well done.

She can't help but feel that her hands aren't clean and the murder weapon is hiding in her closet. Truth is there is blood on her hands. She's been in Sherlock's life six weeks now and she's in. Oh, she's in.

The Sherlock before her was formed by destruction. His own self-destruction.

Destruction isn't supposed to be endearing. It isn't supposed to be alluring. It isn't supposed to come in a remarkable mind that has her own spinning in awe and the power to transform into an aging 6 year old throwing a fit all in a package called Sherlock Holmes. Damage is supposed to be avoided. It's supposed to be prevented. She's done her part. So why can't she leave? Why is she still standing in the middle of the room waiting for a reason to stay?

"I'm afraid your time has come to lapse, Watson. Less than five minutes past actually. Be on your way out, won't you?" Sherlock's attention glued to the computer screen lighting up his face in the dark room.

"What if I don't want to go?" She found herself outing and offering, in nothing but self-incriminating honesty.

Sherlock remained still, focused on the bright screen before him until it suddenly was shut off by a fingertip coming against the computer screen. His attention was intrusive, hints of irritation by the look he was giving her at best.

He's in her personal space in an instant, as if her honesty were permission to do so, "What's the matter, Watson? Six weeks are up I don't have to bring you along as a play date anymore, win-win scenario for both of us, don't you think?"

"Okay. But I don't want to go." She stated.

"If you don't leave now I fear I will fold and give in to the option of taking you up on that offer, because it was an offer wasn't it? If you don't leave now I'm afraid you will have to become a fixture of focus on my time and my time only, and only when I need it."

Joan smirked, "You should know by now I don't offer things half-assed."

"I'm not a good man, Watson. I may be brilliant, but good? I lack everything on the side of good. If you don't walk out that door I'm sure I will damn you to my whims indefinitely."

"I can take tainted." Joan retorted.

Sherlock eyed the packed boxes and luggage taking up the small space in his home. He tries to ignore all human logic telling him to ask her to stay. That's all it takes. Ask her. Ask her and she _will_ stay.

He's never been a man of humanity, it bores him at best. It doesn't solve problems it creates them. Even in his best attempts it ended in the grips of dependency and drug addled influences.

"Part of recovery is addressing painful things. If you ignore them, they become triggers. Your words, Watson. Are you offering to be my recovery or my trigger?"

Joan can only try to work past the fact that her exact words were lodged inside of Sherlock's brain, idling by with what he considered relevant and sticking there willingly. "You pull your own trigger."

"Ah, so recovery is nothing but an illusion. Therefore you're not needed here." He was staring her down, almost a challenge.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" she questioned, his own first words thrown back at him.

She could see it in his eyes. The small loss of confidence making his shoulder's sag and his frown deepen.

She smirked, a small triumph. The small dance of one step in front of the other; two people in sync and yet throwing curve balls every step of the way.

He slowly regained his posture and hovered over her. "No such thing."

Joan raised a brow, "That's because love doesn't have anything to do with it. First sight. You deduce what you can use and you throw out the rest, catalogue small pieces if necessary. You can only imagine what is going on, Sherlock. Most of the times you are right so I guess it would be wrong to challenge you. You don't need me."

With that Joan headed towards her belongings and picked up a bag but not without giving her fair share.

"It doesn't mean you don't want me here." She added.

Sherlock huffed out a few undecipherable words before walking towards her and tossing the bag from her hands onto the rest of her rubbish on the floor.

"If you feel it is in your best interest to stay, Watson, I am hardly about to refuse you. I'm sure most drug addicts like you for the scenery you offer."

Joan smirked, "Just because you offer a compliment in your own way doesn't mean I'll take it as one."

Sherlock shrugged, "I'll suppose you'll have to run that over your tolerance meter, Watson. I am hardly a man who can stop and concede to normal levels of one's likes and needs. You want to stay you put up with what I have to give."

"I wasn't complaining." Joan replied, "I was just letting you know that I won't necessarily put up with your likes and needs either."

Sherlock smirked at Joan as she picked up a box and headed back in the direction of her room. Because it was _her_ room.

Because he doesn't need her, yet he wants her around.

He really hates that she figured him out faster than he thought she would.

**/**

The next morning he brings her cereal to her bed because he wants to not because he has to and that says a lot. He doesn't say a lot obviously but he's sure she gets the message because she smiles that particular sort of smile that makes him feel like he did something right for once.

The next few cases blossom beautifully and Watson is coming into her own with deductions of her own merit. He tries to hide his pride at her discoveries which Gregson and Bell go by oblivious with (small minds, such a tragedy) but she sees right through him.

She pokes at his own deductions and in turn leads to his own revelations. Watson is getting a bit too good at deducing and it turns out he is the only thing she generally enjoys splitting open and sorting through like a game of cluedo.

**/**

Joan is still in front of him talking or something. He's ignoring her until all of the televisions go black.

He blinks.

"What did you do?"

"I'm waiting." Joan smirked, the various television cords dangling from her hands.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and dug into his pockets before letting the item fall into Watson's palm.

Joan closes her hand around the small piece of metal.

"There you go. You are now a full time resident. You have your very own key now would you mind going to do something else besides bother me."

"No," She grinned, "The game is on."

Sherlock groaned, "I've changed my mind, move out."

Joan chuckles and before he knows it he's willingly watching the game with her without spoiling the score because Watson _asked_ him not to.

"Just because I favor you does not warrant a cruel punishment along with it." He says, before sulking some more.

"Of course it doesn't." Joan replies, smile present.

- _I'm quite self-sufficient._

- _Of course you are._


End file.
